


Standing Orders

by TricksterMel



Category: One Piece
Genre: Costume Parties & Masquerades, Drabble, Gen, M/M, not so accidental run-in, sabo is mean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:08:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22553026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TricksterMel/pseuds/TricksterMel
Summary: Deuce spots someone he's never met before. They're familiar.
Relationships: Masked Deuce/Portgas D. Ace, masked decue/sabo (one piece), masked deuce & sabo (one piece), past - Relationship, slight
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	Standing Orders

Lace was not a rare sight in this flavor of smokey backend bar, nor was imitation velvet crumpled under jerking flicks of the wrist. What surprised Decue was the level of immaculacy. The man's collar was so crisply white it matched the proud chest of a messenger dove, cooing among park pigeons. Matching cuff frills untouched by the roulettes greed caked grime danced around his tailored leather gloves. Even staring from a hundred paces, forced to squint past moulin rouge levels of drunken revelry, Decue could tell those weren't the thin calfskin of a proper bluffing dandy, despite what the rest of his outfit presented. They were thick at the seams, oil slicked and soft around reinforced stitching. Padding on the fingertips flashed as this noble-- had to be, with that bet on the table-- talked eagerly with his hands as much as his full fowardly-engaged duck of the head. Those kinds of gloves left few marks behind. Could catch blades.

His bare face, however, was this newcomer’s most telling trait in a room swirling with spectacular masks. Every one of this strangers' features performed a remarkable tightrope act. His face should be brutish-- masculine in the cocky set of his jaw, downward challenge of his brow over much too-wide glacial eyes. There should be, at some level, a repulsive element in the raggad, flaring pattern of knit burn scars marring the entire left half of his face, his annoyingly ivory, biting gap-toothed grin. And yet. Maybe it was the spider silk blonde curls playfully shooed away from mirthful eyes, or the church bell reverberation of his taunting. Just a little too edged. Even the pinch-pressing and recrinkling of his cuffs holds a familiar nature Deuce could never start ignoring.

Yet despite everything off about this young man-- Deuce’s frown spasmed against the ice of his whisky. His closed cropped observations hadn't left room to track how low his drink had become. His concentration flickered to his own state, hunched over a cracked corner table. It had been pristinely polished once, thin marble layered with lacquer. It could have been reflective when it was new, but between the nearly dark and the scratching left from decades of patronage--

“Fireball straight?” A body all but slammed down onto the bench against him. Alcohol replaced the air in his lungs as Decue swallowed a shout.

The hand that slapped his back played a brutalizing rendition of good samaritan, “Really hate yourself, don’tcha?”

Emphasis on really, tongue pressed back to teeth in a hard rolled r. Eager shoulders eager face too close-- high cheekbones, long eyelashes low over such an accusatory gaze. Absurdly through auto-asphyxiation, Deuce wondered how he mixed brutish with fairy-handsome.

“Call me Sabo. Been told a few times that I’m not supposed to give that sort of thing away so quickly, but I’ll make an exception for new friends.” Misplaced noble held up two fingers, not even blinking away as a waiter sloshed fresh whisky into the tumbler. The amber liquid bubbled warm on black leather, refusing to soak beneath leather. No mind for public health, Sabo tipped Deuce’s glass to his own lips. Clinks down hard to the warped stone. Slides it empty so Decue has to scramble between stuttering gasps. “You won’t mind sharing.”

Decue stifles his desperate choking with the back of his hand. His lungs are screaming from lack of oxygen-- breathing at this moment feels too much like a white flag. Even as Deuce glares, he knows the look is far too tear watered to do much more than amuse. Sabo’s chin is tilting expectantly on one palm. Glove tugs his wrist, unorthodoxly gentle for its intention.

“You’re,” Decue’s lungs clear with a final cough into his elbow. Sabo’s eye-- only one is flesh and blood, the one behind his scar a doll’s mimicry-- lights up like a teacher finally breaking through to their belligerent class. “...his brother.”

**Author's Note:**

> writes fanfic for class


End file.
